


in the night, the shadows wait

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Bondage, Canon Typical Violence, Multi, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5736916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she pulled Matt Murdock out of the dumpster, her life took a turn, arguably for the worst. But things sometimes, things get worse. </p><p>But sometimes...</p><p>Sometimes, things get better too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the night, the shadows wait

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be drabble.
> 
> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DRABBLE. 
> 
> And then it grew a plot overnight and I was left glaring at it just waiting for it to finish. Sorry it's so long. I would split it into chapters but I didn't like how it read. It's more of a stream of consciousness than anything so I'll keep it like this.
> 
> I AM SO SORRY.

He isn’t alone when she gets to her apartment, burner phone with his simple message of _I need help Claire_ still glowing on its screen.    

“Matt, who is this?” she asks from the doorway, her voice far calmer than she feels as she takes in the hulking mass standing over her troublesome vigilante.  A faded white skull gazes at her from the shadows, its eyes as blank as the man who wears it, and she shivers at the sight of the weaponry covering every inch of his body.

If possible, he seems more dangerous than Matt and every other nightmare she’s witnessed in Hell’s Kitchen of late and that terrifies her.

But she doesn’t let him see that.

She simply folds her arms over her chest and raises an imperious eyebrow.

“Well?” she snaps, in her best “don’t test me I have too much to get done today” nurse’s voice.  “Who the fuck are you?!”

The man, with his ice-blue eyes and too-long shaggy black hair, almost smiles and glances at Matt, who’s lying bonelessly across her couch, the tell-tale smell of copper in the air telling her she’s in for another long night, and says in a gravelly voice, “Just call me Castle.  Are you the Night Nurse?”

She just stares at him-at the way he fingers the rifle cradled in his arms-and tries to make sense of what he’s said.

Tries.

Fails.

“‘Night Nurse’?!” she repeats, that no-nonsense tone gone from her voice as she struggles to keep her fear at bay.  “What the hell is that?!”

Matt wheezes out a laugh at the irritation leaking through her voice now and rests a hand on Castle’s leg.  Her eyebrows shoot up at the familiar way he touches the hulking monster in her living room but she doesn’t question it.  Instead, she waits for these two idiots to explain themselves.

“It’s an old phrase, Claire,” Matt rasps, and she winces at the obvious pain coating each word.  He struggles for a moment to sit up but Castle forces him flat with a rough push on his shoulder, his cold, dead eyes never leaving her, and she almost protests when Matt gasps.  He turns back to her though, obviously not in so much pain as to shut up for once and she has to resist rolling her eyes.  “Frank is a Marine, through and through, no matter his political leanings and moral standings with the law.”  He smiles when the other man growls at that and rasps out a chuckle before waving her over.  “‘Night Nurse’ is what they called the trauma nurses during the old days-primarily during the Vietnam War.  Take it as a compliment Claire.”

She scowls at that but doesn’t argue with either man.

Because really, isn’t that what she is?

A trauma nurse in the middle of a stupid, pointless, testosterone fueled war.  

The only thing keeping the whole damn world sane.

Or at the very least, trying to.

Instead she hefts her triage bag over her shoulder and cautiously approaches the couch draped with a canvas drop cloth she’s pretty sure she saw last in the hallway two floors down, beside some mostly dried up paint cans; Castle doesn’t move for her, simply shifts from his protective stance over Matt to face her and she shivers when her arm brushes his chest and her hip bumps the sheathed knife strapped to his leg.  “Excuse me,” she mutters under her breath, watching him from the corner of her eye.  Matt smiles once more at that, at her obvious tension and she almost sighs in relief when he stretches out a trembling hand to stroke her arm.

“It’s all right Frank,” he groans, blank eyes turning from her to the man standing much too close for comfort beside her, “we can trust her.”

She drops to her knees beside him and grips his hand tightly in thanks.  Castle doesn’t move from her back at Matt’s quiet reassurance but he does settle into a parade rest, arms loose at his side and legs spread a shoulder-width apart.

“We’ll see about that Murdock,” he growls, his eyes fixed to the back of her skull-almost as if trying to scry her worst inner thoughts-and she tries not to drown in the heavy gunpowder and smoke scent of him.  “You always did put your trust in the worst sort of places.”  

Matt snorts at that and turns his face forward, eyes closing in resignation.  “Well, you’re not wrong,” he says, his voice ragged and wretched.  

Claire, already on edge with the unknown presence in her home and the smell of Matt’s blood starting to overwhelm her, strokes her fingers over his cheek.  The stubble on his chin comforts her-reminding her once more that this is nothing but flesh and bone bleeding out before her, nothing but a man-and she unbuckles the mask from the fine bones of his skull and jaw. “So what’s wrong with you, then, Daredevil?” she asks, lips quirking at his grimace when she uses the nickname most of the Hell’s Kitchen newspapers have tacked onto his street-persona.  “Did you get stabbed again?”

Before Matt can respond, though, Castle snorts.  “Stabbed and shot and beaten over the skull with a steel rod.  He still doesn’t know how to run away from a lost cause.”  

“Says the Punisher,” Matt growls back, no real bite in his voice.  His dark eyes turn in Castle’s direction as she struggles with his body armor and she shudders at the sensation of the brute at her back drawing nearer.  “Do you even know what the word ‘surrender’ means, you goddamn Marine?”

She jumps when Castle’s fingers join hers, carefully unbuckling the red polymer and leather suit from her patient’s body and she hesitates at the familiarity the scarred fingers have on Matt’s suit.  

Almost as if…

As if he’s done this before.

Cold blue eyes glance at her when Matt hisses and white teeth flash in her direction at the sight of her eyes widening and her cheeks paling.  

“You’re scaring the Nurse, Murdock,” he growls, moving to shift Matt’s body so she can remove the vigilante’s clothes.  Which she does after another long moment of hesitation.  “If she realizes she’s got the Punisher in her living room, she might call the cops,” he murmurs, challenge in his voice and gaze. _Do it and you’ll regret it_ , goes unspoken, hangs between the three of them with Castle’s-the _Punisher_ -words but Claire ignores it; she can’t stop her skin from bumping though, when his fingers brush hers where they rest on Matt’s chest, next to a sluggishly bleeding wound. His massive body, all solid muscle and Kevlar, presses against hers and she can feel every hilt, every grip of the weapons covering his body.

The white skull on his chest seems to glare at her even more fiercely and she swallows nervously before turning to the task at hand.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she snarls as she pokes and prods at the multitude of wounds covering Matt’s body.  Her dark eyes flash in Castle’s direction when he snorts but she doesn’t back down.  “I’ve seen far worse than your like, just in the past day.  So if you wouldn’t mind getting off my back, I need to get to work before Matt bleeds out on my couch.”    

Castle’s pale blue eyes narrow a bit and for a moment it looks almost as if he’s considering laying her out, with what would probably just be a light tap of the back of his scarred and hairy-knuckled hand.  

“Frank,” Matt whispers, shaking hand rising to rest on the man’s chest.  “Don’t…”

Claire raises her eyebrows in a challenge of her own and as Matt’s warm blood begins to coat her fingers, Castle sighs.

“All right Murdock,” he growls, rising slowly with a faint pop of his left knee.  “All right.  I’ll back off.”

 _For now_ , goes unspoken once more as he stalks from the couch to the armchair sitting by her balcony French doors.

Matt strokes her cheek when she sighs in relief, her hands shaking on his skin for a brief moment and he smiles gently up at her.  “You’re fine Claire,” he murmurs when she presses a light kiss to the feathery pulse in his wrist.  “He’s not as scary as he seems.”

She snorts softly at that and rummages in her bag for a moment, searching for antiseptic and liquid bandages.  “Yeah?  Well, he puts on a good front,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

He rasps out a laugh and shifts on the couch, blood once more streaming freely down his chest.  “So do you, Night Nurse.  So do you.”

She shakes her head at the apparent nickname falling from his lips and sets to work on the battered canvas of his chest.  “Ass,” she grumbles as she begins the long, arduous task of stitching Daredevil back together.

Matt just smiles and listens to the two heartbeats beating in perfect unison beside him; her scent, warm and spiced-like cinnamon-washes over him, mingling comfortingly with Frank Castle’s gunpowder and smoke scent and he closes his eyes in relief.  

 _Safe,_ he thinks.   _Both of them safe._

_For now._

He falls asleep then, battered body finally winning out against his mind and as Claire begins to draw a needle through his skin, he strokes her cheek once more.  

“Thank you,” he whispers as his eyes roll up into his skull and his body goes limp under her capable touch.  “Both of you.  Thank you…”

**

“You did a good job on him.”  

Claire jumps slightly at Frank Castle’s voice behind her but doesn’t stop scrubbing Matt’s blood out from under her nails.

“Yeah? Well, I’ve gotten used to him bleeding on me,” she mutters, keeping her eyes fixed on her reddening fingers and the steam rising from the sink.  

Castle shifts behind her, in the bathroom doorway, and she tries to stop thinking _Trapped.  Trapped for good._  “He shouldn’t have gone after Fisk’s men alone tonight. He can’t do this alone, you know. He needs help but he’s too pigheaded to realize it. He’s lucky I caught wind of what he was up to tonight and got to him in time to stop the worst of it,” Castle says, some of the growl gone from his voice and she glances up at his reflection in the mirror.  He’s not looking at her though.  

Instead he focuses on a metal rod between his hands and she freezes at the sight of blood coating one end of it.

For one wild moment she wonders if the Punisher has killed Daredevil in her living room.

If he’s now come to finish her off.

If this is where she’s finally going to end up dead.

In her bathroom, with her skull bashed in by a metal rod probably plucked out of some dank alley a few blocks away.

Castle glances at her then, almost as if he sensed her panic, and scowls at the sight of her staring wildly at him, hands still stuck under the steaming fall of water.  “You’re burning your hands Claire.”

The rod disappears in a pocket of his dark pants and she jumps when he reaches around her to turn the hot water off.  She gasps, her hands shrieking in agony when he turns the cold spigot on instead and bites back a curse when his callused thumb strokes the back of her hand.  Cold water splashes over her inflamed skin and she closes her eyes in relief, even as he turns first one hand and then the other over under the water.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his chest rumbling against her back and she opens her eyes to see him glaring dangerously at her hands, his entire being focused on taking care of her.  

It’s an absurd realization to have, realizing the Punisher cares enough about her to protect her, even so simply and she finds herself asking, “Why?”

“Why aren’t you going to hurt me?”

He stills at that, his eyes rising to meet hers and she takes the opportunity to study him.  

To study the jagged scar slashing across his forehead and over his left eye socket.  

To take in the lines bracketing his eyes and his lips.

To note the silver starting to creep from his temples to his crown.  

The Punisher, she realizes in that moment, is just like the Daredevil.

A man.

Flesh and blood.  

Built of shadows, justified anger and definitely questionable morals.

It’s not as comforting a thought as it should be.  

He frowns at her, his eyes warming a bit as he watches her studying him so carefully and he turns the cold water off.  

“You’re not a bad person Claire,” he says, eyes turning from her face to her fingers.  “And Matt trusts you.”    
“Why?”

She asks it again, her voice plaintive as she tries to make sense of this whole nightmare her life has become.  “Why does Matt Murdock trust _me_?”

Frank Castle wraps her hands gently in the hand towel she’d crumpled on the toilet seat that morning before leaving for the hospital and rubs them for a moment, his dark head bowed as if trying to come up with a good answer for her.

Finally he sighs.  

“Because you see him as Matt Murdock and not the Daredevil, Claire,” he says finally, his voice soft and completely devoid of the dark growl she’s grown so used to hearing.  

She stares at him, shocked, as he smiles and her eyes widen in surprise when he brushes a brusque and bristly kiss across her cheek.

“Thank you for keeping him safe,” he growls as he stalks from the bathroom and she just stares, completely floored by the out-of-character caress still burning across her skin.  

“What the fuck?” she whispers to herself as she sags onto the toilet seat.  “What the…”

_Oh my God._

**

When she wakes up in the morning, both of them are gone.  

No note.

No nothing.

No sign that the vigilantes known as the Punisher and Daredevil had even been here in her very own damn corner of Hell’s fucking Kitchen.

They even took the time to clean up the bloody drop cloth they’d placed on her couch to keep it safe from Matt’s blood.

“Assholes,” she grumbles as she takes in her sunny, spotless living room before heading to the kitchen.  

Coffee-way too potent-warms in the pot by the stove and her burner phone sits beside her favorite mug.  

A new number is programmed into it.

_Castle._

_555-9867_

Her skin burns at the sight of those white digits glowing pointedly at her and she pushes the phone away with shaking fingers.  

“Like _hell_ ,” she whispers to her empty, sunshine-filled kitchen.

“Like fucking _hell._ ”

She pockets the phone though, just before leaving for her shift at the hospital, without questioning why.  

It’s just…

Just the way her life is now.

Claire Temple, Night Nurse.  

“Yeah, well.  Fuck that,” she mutters to herself as she slams her door closed behind her and locks it.  “They can stitch their own bodies back together for all I care.”  

They’re empty words, and she knows it.

Still, they make her feel safe.

Make her think she has a choice in this War.

They all know better though.

The Night Nurse is supposed to stitch her soldier’s back to order.

And she does a damn good job of it.  

**

Frank Castle almost dies on her doorstep, about a month after she first has the pleasure of meeting him.

“What the fuck?” she snarls when she throws her door open, after snapping awake to a fist pounding relentlessly on its scarred surface.  “What the hell is your problem? Castle?!”

It’s 2 in the morning. She’d only been asleep for an hour after finally getting off of a 38 hour shift from hell.  

“Claire,” he rasps, his voice a thing of nightmares. Her nightmares, specifically.  

The hippocratic oath was more of a guideline at this point, right?

He lowers his fist slowly, taking in her very-worn, very-long t-shirt she used as a nightshirt and her bare legs beneath the hem. She almost slams the door in his face at that point but then she catches it.

The whiff of blood.

A lot of fucking blood.

The heavy _drip-drip_ of it fills the hallway, echoes in her ears.  There’s already a fair-sized puddle of the stuff at his feet.  

And she realizes his pupils are blown.

And he’s not so much standing on her doorstep, as leaning against the frame, massive body shaking in what she thinks might be shock.

And a fuck-load of blood loss.

_...drip...drip..._

Great.

“Shit,” she breathes, her hands flying out to catch him when his knees finally buckle and he groans, eyes rolling back into his skull for a brief moment.

“Don’t you dare die on my doorstep, Castle. I’ll never forgive you,” she gasps, when his massive weight settles on hers; he snorts at that, his breath hot on her neck as she positions her body around his, the better to bear his weight. And that scent of blood washes over her once more, sharp and metallic.  She can feel it leaking through her shirt, through a scary amount of layers of leather and probably some Kevlar.  It’s warm and thick.

And there’s a lot of it.

“Christ,” she whispers and she can tell he’s trying to remain upright, trying to keep his massive body from crushing hers.

He’s just so much bigger than Matt.

So much...more.

She leads him-carries him really-through her apartment towards her living room, thanking god and all of his angels as she does that she turned the lights on as she rushed from her bedroom.  She can barely lift her head from where she has it lodged beneath his shoulder.  

Somehow they make it to her couch though, without him collapsing on her, and she counts it as a minor victory.

“So what happened to you this time?” she asks, easing him onto her couch, thanking god she hadn’t fallen asleep on it, while watching tv.  She’d never have forgiven him if he’d gotten blood on her favorite fleece blanket.

“Fell down the stairs,” he rasps, groaning when he collapses back, no longer able to remain upright.  He’s white.

Whiter than white.

He might actually be the color of eggshells now.

She rolls her eyes and wipes her hands on the hem of her shirt absently, not paying any mind to the bloodstains she leaves there.

“Heard that one a time or two,” she shoots back, eyes narrowing as she surveys him, trying to figure out where the straps begin and his body ends.  “Usually from prettier faces than yours.”

He tries to laugh, but shudders to a stop, hands clenching into fists tight enough for the tendons on the back of his hands to pop.

He doesn’t make a sound but she can see the muscles in his jaw tensing and his eyes close, just in time for her to see a brief glimpse of their agonized blue depths.  

Damned vigilantes.

“Easy, Castle,” she says, hands pressing into his stomach, just beneath the faded skull grinning on his chest. “Don’t push it.”

He’s shaking when his hand clutches hers.  

“Shouldn’t have come,” he whispers, his breath ragged and his skin more grey than white now. “Shouldn’t have come...I’m sorry Claire. Just give me a second and I’ll get out of here. It’s too late to help...”

She stares at him, completely floored by his words and by the icy-coldness of his fingers on hers.

“Shut the hell up Frank,” she snaps, setting to work before he can stop her.

And that scares her more than the blood leaking along his edges.  He doesn’t stop her from stripping him down.

He just watches her with something a little like fear in his eyes.

The fear of the inevitable.

“Fuck it,” she snarls when she can’t find all of the buckles and straps holding him together and she bares her teeth in a silent snarl before tugging one of his many knives free and slashes the Kevlar vest free of his chest.  

The blade-nearly as long as her forearm and twice as wide-glints in the half-light of her living room and she levels it between his eyes, every inch the domineering nurse.

“You listen to me right now Frank Castle,” she snaps the moment his eyes open to meet hers.  His gaze is vague, but he smiles at the sight of the blade she holds so confidently.  She grits her teeth and says the only thing that can damn them.

“You’re not dying on me today, Frank.  Do you hear me?  I’d never forgive you.”

He just smiles at her, the self-righteous asshole, fingers rising to stroke her cheek.  

“I like it when you call me Frank,” he says softly, some of the familiar growl back in his voice and she just stares at him.  His mouth opens, as if he’s thinking of saying something else, but then his hand falls limply to the floor beside where she kneels and his eyes roll back for good.  

“Christ,” she whispers, that familiar adrenaline-rush of blood pounding in her ears now that she knows her time is well-and-truly up.

If she’s going to save Frank Castle, a.k.a. the Punisher, she’s going to have to do it now.

And fast.

And for the moment, that’s all that matters.

Saving the Punisher.

Fuck.

**

The night the Daredevil and the Punisher save her is almost like something from a nightmare, if it hadn’t become a daily lifestyle in Hell’s Kitchen, that is.  

“Who is the Daredevil?!”

It’s the same goddamn question, over-and-over.  Never changing.  Never varying.

_Who is the Daredevil?_

“I don’t know,” she whispers through the blood coating her lips and throat.  “I don’t _know._ ”

It’s a lie, of course it is.

She knows it.

Fisk’s cronies know it.  

They all fucking know she’s lying.

She takes their rough handling without complaint.

 _Your fault this happened Claire._ Your _fault.  You should never have pulled Matt out of that damn dumpster and fixed the Punisher up.  This is on you..._

There are four of them, she thinks, all of them wearing masks and the two she recognizes from her apartment seem to bear most of the authority in their little group.  She focuses on them, focuses on finding out as much as she can for them.

Just like Matt taught her.

She remembers what it was like the last time these freaks got their hands on her. She remembers how helpless she’d felt. It was not a feeling she liked. So she pretends to find some courage and grits her teeth in a snarl, like she’s seen Matt do when he’s mad.

“If you don’t tell us who the idiot in the mask is, you little skank,” the one with the watery blue eyes and scarred throat says for the upteenth time, “You’re going to have a lot worse than a few punches and busted lips coming your way, you comprendo?”

She spits blood in his face and grins, opening the cut on her bottom lip once more. He curses her out, her bloody spit glittering on his dark ski mask but he doesn’t strike her.  

“Yeah, I comprendo,” she croaks, nearly choking on the blood coating her tongue.  “I’m not afraid of you freaks.”

They laugh at that, ratcheting hyena laughs that tell her how afraid they truly are.

Boys, that’s all these bastards are.

Boys, in way over their heads.

She laughs at that, head thrown back against the chair they have her tied to and she can’t help feeling a little proud at how little panic there is in her voice.  

“He’s going to eat you for lunch,” she hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously as blood drips slowly from her chin and stains the collar of her scrubs.

Watery Eyes backhands her at that, hard enough she can feel her neck pop and her vision blanks for a second, but she doesn’t back down.  

“When he finds you idiots,” she hisses, tears starting to fall from her eyes to mingle with the blood coating her jaw, “I hope he breaks your hands first.”  They stare at her, eyes widening behind their masks, and she bares her teeth in triumph at the sight of their fear.  She can smell it now-just like Matt said she would-and it tastes like victory in the back of her throat.

“Do you know what will happen if he breaks your hands?” she asks, her fingers curling into fists at the thought of what they undoubtedly have coming for them.  They shift before her, eyes flicking from one to the other and the two leaders grip their nightsticks a little harder.  

She cringes internally at the sight of her blood drying on the sticks but she doesn’t stop taunting.

Doesn’t stop fighting.

Just like Matt taught her.

“If he breaks your hands,” she whispers, shoulders beginning to strain slightly against the ropes holding her in place, wrists twisting in her bonds.  “You’ll more than likely be disabled for life.  The bones, if they’re not set properly, will decay and the muscles and tendons will atrophy.”  She lets reason dictate her words.

Lets her medical background speak for itself.

Plus, these goons have been around for a while apparently. They’ve heard the stories just like everyone else in Hell’s Kitchen. And they’ve seen the Daredevil’s work, firsthand.

 _If you can’t scare them with a beating, Claire,_ Matt whispers in the back of her skull as she picks at the rough ropes binding her.   _Scare them with reason._

_Truth is more terrifying than most anything else._

“Shut up you little tramp,” one of the others hisses.  His eyes are dark, panicked.  She can see tattoos peeking free of his sleeves and collars.

His accent is thick.

Eastern.

_A Russian?_

She spits at him as well, anger starting to replace some of her fear.

She wants to destroy them, to break them like she’s seen Matt do to others of their kind.  

Claire Temple actually wants to hurt another human being because if she’s being honest with herself…

_I’m sick of being a stupid pawn in this stupid War._

The stick her latest assailant holds glints dangerously in the flickering fluorescent lights but he doesn’t get a chance to hit her.

The lights flick off instead, as the stick rises dangerously above his masked head and a gravelly voice she wishes she didn’t recognize growls from the shadows, “Men who beat women deserve to be punished.”

Her heart hammers in her ears, even as her eyes strain through the shadows of this dingy warehouse she’s been kept in for god knows how long, and her mouth goes dry as she waits for the faded white skull to loom out of the shadows.  

Her breath rasps through her lungs, her bruised and most likely fractured, ribs heaving as she tries to keep her panic at bay, and she almost misses the soft brush of fingers on her wrists.  

“Easy Claire,” Matt whispers in her ears, just as the tell-tale sound of a neck breaking rocks through the cavernous warehouse and a skull leers out of the half-light.  “We’re getting you out of here.”

Frank Castle’s eyes settle on her-she can feel them as much as she can feel Matt’s gentle touch-and she whimpers.  

He scares her, more than any of the men who have hurt her in recent months.

More than Matt Murdock and his self-sacrificing idiot vigilantism.  

He scares her to the bone and she realizes as he neutralizes three more Hell’s Kitchen rats, that reason doesn’t apply to one such as him.

“Get me out of here,” she whispers to Matt, her arms locked around his neck and her face turned away from the blank gaze of the Punisher’s sigil.  “Get me away from him.”

And God bless him…

He does.

**

“I’m sorry.”

She wakes to Frank Castle’s fingers touching her gently, his heady warmth washing over her and it takes her a moment to realize he’s stitching her back together.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice rasping over the words and she winces, eyes closing as she struggles to stay awake.

She can’t sleep now-not with the Punisher breathing on her.

He’s wearing glasses, eyes narrowed behind the lenses and if it wasn’t for the scars twisting his body and that haunting sound of bones crumbling under those capable fingers touching her now, she’d find him attractive.

She’d find…

“Did you give me _morphine?_ ” she demands, her words a little slurred and her eyes a tad bit unfocused.

His lips twitch in what she thinks might be a smile.

“It was either that or whiskey,” he growls, dark eyes narrowing as he pulls the needle and thread through her skin before tying it off with a grunt of satisfaction, and she focuses for a moment on the sharp bite of alcohol as he passes a swab over her brand new stitches, just under the swell of her breast. “But Matt wouldn’t let me open the bottle,” he says, that dark humor she recognizes as his own personal brand in his voice.

She swallows thickly, trying to get some moisture on her tongue and her teeth feel too big for her skull, her body feels heavy and leaden. Her vision swirls as she glances down at Castle’s hands taping bandages over the various wounds marring her body and she whimpers, struggling to get her own hands to function, to push his off of her skin.

“Easy,” he says, raising his hands slowly, his pale eyes concerned behind the gold frames of his glasses. “Easy, you’re safe now.”

She laughs at that, ratcheting gasps that make her chest ache and her head pound; she turns her head away and closes her eyes, desperate to stop the spinning and the sick feeling in her stomach.

“Safe,” she repeats, her voice rasping as tears well in her throbbing eyes.  “S-safe?!”

Hysteria.

She can feel it welling in her chest, in her throat, in her lungs.

She can feel her mind coming to pieces.

And Frank Castle is still watching her.

“Hey,” he says, his deep voice washing over her as his brow wrinkles and his eyes narrow in concern.  “You’re fine Claire. We got you out and you’re-”

“Not fine,” she whispers, tears beginning to slip down her cheek to soak her pillow; they glisten in the lamplight and she wishes it was Matt beside her, not the Punisher.  She wishes.

A lot of shit, really.

“Not fine.  I can feel them touching me, can feel their skin on mine.  I can still _feel_ them hurting me.”

Her eyes clench closed and she tries to keep from hearing the men who hurt her, calling her trash and bitch and whore.  

Tries to forget what it felt like, her ribs breaking once more beneath metal rods.

The room is quiet; she can still feel Castle behind her, his arms folded across his chest and she can feel those cold, pale eyes, watching her.

Studying her.

Like a wolf, surveying its prey just before attacking.

She can feel those bastards touching her and breaking her.

She can feel-

The bed dips beneath her suddenly and she gasps, cutting off the sobs that had been clawing their way out of her chest.

“Shh,” Castle says, his massive body reclining behind hers, not touching-not quite-the warmth of his presence once more washing over her and grounding her.  “Shhh, Claire, shh.”

He doesn’t touch her.  Thank God.

Doesn’t touch her.  

Just lies beside her and waits for her breaths to even out.    
“Why does this keep happening?” she asks, her vision going blurry now that the morphine has started to work its magic and her body is more warm than cold. Castle is a solid mass of muscle at her back and before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s turning towards him, curling into a little ball that fits perfectly beneath his chin.  

He stiffens in surprise, his breath hitching in his chest, but then he’s wrapping his arms around her, pulling her tighter against him, adjusting their bodies so her head is resting on his pillow, her nose level with his collarbones.  He smells like gunpowder and sweat and the musky shampoo Matt uses.

He’s nothing but muscle and heat. Solid.

Safety.

Her body relaxes even more, liquid morphine warmth washing through her as Frank Castle’s body molds around her, shielding her from…

Everything.

“This will never happen again, Claire. I swear to you,” he growls, his voice a distant rumble, and for the first time since she’s met him, she finds that threat laden growl reassuring.  

Her fingers curl into his shirt, locking him in place and if she were sober, if she wasn’t beaten to a pulp and stoned on what feels like enough morphine to take down a horse, she’d question why she’s letting the Punisher hold her like this.

Why she hasn’t insisted on Matt patching her up and comforting her.

If she were up to questioning herself…

She’d say she found the skull and not the devil himself, more of a comfort tonight.

If she were up to questioning herself…

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Castle,” she whispers, her eyes closing and sleep finally claiming her, her body tucked against his and isn’t this just bizarre?

The Night Nurse finding safety in the circle of the Punisher’s arms.

**

“She’s sleeping?”

Matt’s voice from the doorway snaps him awake and he bares his teeth in the other man’s direction in a wordless snarl.  

“Shut up,” he snaps, struggling to keep his voice pitched low so as to not wake the sleeping woman in his arms.  “I just got her to settle.”

Matt studies them, his head cocked as he listens to the steady thud of Claire’s heart and Frank’s much slower pace.  

Frank can see them reflected in the dark red lenses of Matt’s glasses and he sighs; the glasses do nothing to hide Matt’s exhaustion and obvious worry for the woman cradled in Frank’s arms.  But trust him to not take any care of himself into consideration.

Matt Murdock would rather stand and keep watch over him and Claire than admit he himself is about to collapse from exhaustion.

“C’mere Murdock,” he growls, his voice brooking no argument as he pats the bed on the other side of Claire. “That couch of yours is terrible and you’re dead on your feet.”

Matt doesn’t immediately move from the doorway; his glasses glint as he turns his head towards the rest of his apartment-listening for threats or maybe the ongoing argument from the apartment three doors down and Frank sighs.

This is a dance they do every time they come across each other.

Matt warily circling and Frank trying to find his humanity.

Only this time there’s a woman in his arms.

And most of a bed, just waiting to be used.

“We’re safe, for now,” he growls and you don’t have to have heightened senses to hear the threat in his voice.

Matt just huffs out a sigh and cards his fingers through his hair.

“She’ll never forgive us for this, Castle,” he mutters as he pulls the sheets back and crawls into the bed on the other side of Claire. He removes his glasses with a sigh and sets them on the bedside table. “We’re probably going to wake up with scalpels to our throats.”

Frank just chuckles and shifts Claire over so Matt can get another inch or two of space.  

“Just shut up Murdock. She’ll be fine,” he grumbles, eyes closing as sleep once more begins to claim him. The bed is warm. So soft. And Claire’s body fits so perfectly to theirs.  

Matt rests his hand on her hip, instinct taking charge as he falls asleep as well and the three of them begin to breathe in sync, their battered bodies easing together, notching together like three pieces of a truly fucked up puzzle.  

The room is quiet-for two of them at least-but even Matt stops listening to the outside world when Claire’s and Frank’s heartbeats begin to vibrate through his chest, matching his own.  

It’s bliss, being warm.

Being safe.

Being with two people who mean a little bit more than “just partners” to him.

He loves listening to Frank relax, to the man snoring, his body finally letting all of his strain and anger go so his mind can find peace.  

He loves listening to Claire hum in her sleep occasionally, soft Spanish falling from her lips.

She is soft, so feminine in this world of testosterone and anger.

So strong.  

So…

Precious.

He presses a soft kiss to her neck with a sigh and a whispered, “We’ll keep you safe Claire.”

And for the first time since she first dragged him out of that dumpster, from the time Frank Castle first appeared in his life…

It doesn’t feel like an empty promise.

**  

She wakes with an arm draped over her hip, locking her in place, with her mouth half-open on the massive bicep of another arm.  

It takes her a moment to process that neither arm belongs to her.

And that those arms, in fact, belong to two different people.

“Oh god,” she groans, her mouth tasting of cotton and her head swimming sickeningly. “What…”

Morphine.

Right.

Thankfully the events of the night before don’t come rushing back the moment her eyes open and for that she’s fucking glad.  She might vomit if she remembered how she got to be in this bed.

Not alone.

So for the moment she just focuses on her body, on the many aches and pains starting to beg for her attention.

And the warm weights pressing in on her from either side.

Those arms, draping her and cradling her in a warm circle.  

Massive chests, pressed tight to her battered body, rumbling with soft in-sync snores.

A forehead between her shoulders.  

A chin resting on the top of her head.  

The familiar musks of two very different men, intertwining, threatening to overwhelm her.  

 _Okay._ **_One thing_ ** _at a time, Christ woman._

Her ribs throb dully, protesting the cramped position she’s in.

Her fingers ache and she remembers thinking her pinky and ring finger on her left hand might have broken during the night’s...events.

She grimaces at that but doesn’t focus too closely on the possibly broken bones once she sees them splinted together and wrapped tightly in bandages.  

She can feel adhesive on her skin, pulling at the little hairs on her arms and on the tender skin just beneath her left breast.

Her heart stutters at that.

At the memory of Frank Castle’s blue eyes narrowing as he bent over her, silver needle flashing-

“Stop,” she whispers to herself, eyes squeezing closed. “Stop, Claire.”

She works to keep her breath even.

To match it to the breaths washing over her from her front and her back.

Tries to focus on anything that isn’t last night.

So she focuses on the men holding her so carefully, as if they’re afraid she’ll break, even as they sleep.

Matt’s arm is the one draping her hip, his forehead tight to her back, and her ass is tucked into his groin, almost as if he pulled her to him during the night sometime.  

She almost smiles at that, at the hard heat of his cock increasing each time she shifts her hips.  

His heart beats steadily at her back, for now still locked in sleep. And for that she’s grateful.

The Daredevil doesn’t get nearly enough sleep.

No matter how much she harps on him.

She glances up, eyes dragging over the massive chest her own forehead is tucked against, and she brushes her fingers along a wicked scar bisecting the heavy forearm on the mattress beside her.  

Castle.

Resting beside her, his hard body curved protectively around her, his arm folded beneath her head, providing her the angle she needs to keep from snoring at night.  

She swallows at that realization.  

At the thought that both of these men are doing their utmost to keep her comfortable.

Safe.

“If you’re done enjoying the view, Nurse Temple,” Castle growls, his voice vibrating through her chest and she jumps slightly.

Matt’s arms tighten in response to her twitch and he mutters sleepily, pulling her tighter to him, his own hips rocking up to press against her ass.

She stills at the solid ridge of cock rubbing against her and Castle chuckles, the rumbling of his laughter washing over her, even as what she thinks might be his lips brush her skull.  

“Easy, Night Nurse,” he says.  “Murdock’s still asleep.  Like you should be.”  

She shakes her head slightly and tries to find a way to get free of Matt’s death-grip and around Castle’s body.  

“I have to pee,” she croaks, wincing at the sandpaper quality of her voice and her fingers shake when she raises them to press against the base of her throat.  

Castle’s fingers wrap tight around hers and he sighs.  

“Right.  Should have thought,” he mutters but before she can say anything to reassure him that her having to pee is not his fault, his arms are sweeping beneath her and he’s scooping her carefully into his arms.

She gasps, throwing her arms around his heavily muscled neck and curses him in Spanish as the room swims sickeningly.

He just chuckles and heads for the bathroom.

“I can walk,” she snaps, her eyes squeezed closed and her face tight to his neck. “Set me down Castle.”

“Not likely,” he growls, tightening his grip on her despite her protests.  “You’re still doped up on morphine. I can smell it on you.”

She snorts and tangles her fingers in the black cotton of his shirt-anything to anchor her.

“Does everyone get super-senses the moment they put on spandex?” she asks, her voice weak as she tries to keep some of the nausea at bay.  

He laughs again and that sound.

That sound makes her chest tighten and her heart hammer a little harder against her battered ribcage.  

“Sarcasm isn’t appreciated Nurse Temple,” he says, nudging the door open with his shoulder before entering the wide-open space.  It’s well-lit, despite the hour, from that damn billboard no doubt and she glances up to see Castle grinning down at her.

“You don’t know me very well then, Punisher. Sarcasm is the only thing I do well,” she grumbles as he sets her on her feet just beside the toilet. She sways for a moment, hands flying forward to clutch his biceps and she swallows heavily, her eyes squeezing closed as she catches her breath.

“I hate morphine,” she whispers, mostly to herself. Mostly to the hulking monster scowling in concern down at her.  Her knees finally buckle and she sags to the toilet seat with a moan, head falling forward to rest on her knees.

She barely notices him running the water in the sink beside her and then gathering her hair off of her neck.

The cool cloth he places there makes her jump but she sighs in relief as the flush on her skin fades and the spinning behind her eyes finally skids to a halt.

“Thank you Frank,” she whispers, head still lowered to her knees.

His joints pop loudly when he squats in front of her, hands still holding her hair out of her face and she peeks at him from around her arms.  

He’s smiling, she thinks. She can make out the white glint of teeth through his beard at the very least and his eyes don’t seem as hard as she’s grown used to seeing them.  It’s not as unsettling as it should be.

She spent the night sleeping in his arms.

His and Matt’s.

“I like it when you call me Frank. Makes me remember what normal is supposed to feel like,” he says, matter-of-factly.  He removes the cloth from her neck after a moment, during which she just stares at him, still trying to process just what is going on.

“All right Nurse Temple,” he says, pulling her forward off of the toilet and upright. “You still have to take a piss?”

She doesn’t sway-much-and her hands only shake a little bit when she rests them on his shoulders.  He glances up at her from where he squats at her feet, hands resting on her hips.  It’s then that she suddenly realizes she’s wearing Matt’s clothes.

A pair of too-long silky pajama pants and one of his t-shirts, both smelling faintly of him, drape her, making her feel small and much more delicate than she probably is.

Russians be damned.

“What happened to my clothes?” she asks suddenly, the words falling from her lips before she can stop them and this was not how she wanted to bring up last night.

Not what needs to be discussed right now, the Punisher’s fingers poised to untie the knot at the front of the Daredevil’s pajama pants.  

But she asks and fuck it.

She wants to know what happened to her scrubs.

She…

She’s shaking now and Castle just sighs.

“We had to pitch them Claire,” he says, eyes lowered to her bare toes, just peeking free of the pajamas.  “They were beyond help.”

It’s too much and she’s crying now.

Crying hard enough for her ribs to ache even worse now and judging by the warmth just under her breast…

“You’ve split some stitches Claire,” a quiet voice says from the bathroom doorway and suddenly it’s not just Castle holding her but Matt too.

“Fuck this,” she sobs, her head buried in Castle’s shoulder, Matt’s arms tight around her waist and his head pressed to her back.  “Fuck all of this.”

Neither man answers.

Just holds her, for once providing the comfort she has so selflessly provided them, too many times for counting.

“Shh,” Castle hums, his hand tight to the back of her skull.  “Shhh, let it go. That’s right sweetheart. That’s right.”  

Matt just presses kisses to her neck and keeps his arms around her waist.

And this is not how she wanted to spend her first Sunday off in months.

But it seems to be the norm anymore.

At least it’s her this time, bleeding on Matt’s bathroom floor, and not the other way around.

**

There’s a night, a few months after her second run-in with the Russians and her subsequent melt-down in Matt’s bathroom, that she and Castle almost kill the Daredevil.

_I need your help Night Nurse. Meet at Matt’s._

She glares at her phone, half-tempted to just throw it back in her locker and go back onto the floor.  Her shift is over.

O-V-E-R.

She’s been on her feet for 16 hours.

The last thing she wants to do is-

The phone vibrates in her hand.

_He’s going to die without you Claire._

“Goddammit Castle,” she mutters, shoving the phone in her sweatshirt pocket before reaching into her locker for the rest of her clothes.

She leaves the hospital, waving to friends as she goes and no one asks her about the triage bag she’s carrying or the worried expression on her face.

The cab drops her off in front of Matt’s building and she takes a deep breath, hands tightening around the strap of her bag until her knuckles go white.

She hasn’t seen either vigilante in weeks.

Months.

Hasn’t heard from them.

She’d almost forgotten about the phone, in all honesty, a few times. Only grabbing it when it fell out of dirty scrub pockets, half-dead and silent.  

She’d almost forgotten what it was like to be held by each man, solid and scarred.

“Goddammit Claire,” she hisses to herself, jogging up the stairs leading towards Matt’s apartment, his key clutched tight in her mittened hand. “What the hell are you doing?”

She hasn’t heard from Frank Castle or Matt Murdock in weeks.

But that doesn’t mean Hell’s Kitchen hasn’t.

The papers have been covered in their exploits, conspiracy theorists have been discussing potential crimes committed by the men on the news at night, Karen Page may have become the president of the Daredevil fanclub.

Every Hell’s Kitchen resident has been muttering about them under their breath, eyes skating nervously from dark alley to dark alley.

She might not have heard from Matt or Frank…

But their marks have been left on every inch of her home.

On her body.

The still-pink scar under her breast twinges at the thought but she ignores it.

“Matt?” she calls, slipping into his apartment, her eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden difference in light.  It’s dark-darker than she’s ever seen his home before and it takes her a moment to realize why.

_The billboard…_

She stifles her gasp, her heart pounding in her ears as she takes in the dark expanse of the most obnoxious billboard she’d ever had the displeasure of viewing, and she instinctively reaches into her pocket for the mace Frank Castle had given to her the last time she saw him.  

 _I don’t want a knife Castle,_ she’d said.

 _I don’t like the thought of you walking around unprotected,_ he’d said, folding her fingers around the slim canister, showing her how to flip the cap back and how to activate it. _Just promise me you’ll be careful, Night Nurse._

Stupid.

Should have taken the knife...

“Easy Night Nurse,” a familiar voice growls from the shadows directly behind her, from the shadowy kitchen.

She doesn’t scream.

Just sighs.  

“What the hell is going on Castle?” she asks as he eases past her. His arms are full of what looks like kitchen towels and a very large bottle of cheap vodka.

Her heart lurches in her chest at the sight of the heavy assault rifle strapped to his back and the mean gleam in his eye.

Frank Castle is furious.

Ready to spit bullets.  

Everything about him screams fury and barely contained violence; he’s more of the Punisher tonight than at any other time she’s come across him.

She sighs and resists dropping her head in her hands.

“Matt’s done something stupid, hasn’t he?” she asks and Castle’s dragging her now, hand tight on her upper arm, vodka clutched tight under his arm and towels stuffed in his belt.  

“When has he ever done anything remotely intelligent, Claire?” he growls and it’s more his use of her name than the very true statement that makes her smile in resignation.  

They only call each other by name when shit’s about to get real.

So to speak.

“Give me a run-down,” she says quietly and they’re in the living room now, the wide wall of windows still dark and she can just make out the now-shattered surface of the former billboard just beyond their rippled expanse.  

Sparks fly from periodic points and she sighs again.  

“Two GSW’s,” he begins, the words falling flat and she can see a muscle twitching in his jaw. Almost as if he’s resisting shouting it to the world. To the man most likely lying in agonized silence on the other side of the bedroom door they’ve stopped in front of.  “Possibly broken ribs. Damage to his face-probably a broken cheekbone.  Concussion.  Electrical burns.  Multiple knife wounds, all to non-vitals.  In desperate need of stitches. He fell three stories into that damn dumpster in the alley.  He should just put his name on it at this point.”

The laundry list is long, she’ll give them that.

But it’s no worse than she’s faced before.  

With them or at Metro-General.

“What was he doing this time?  Antagonizing the owner of the building across the street?” she asks, eyes darting to the void where that billboard once glowed.

Castle actually snorts, mouth twisted ruefully and then he’s kicking Matt’s bedroom door open.

“That was me,” he growls, pulling her into the room.  “I got sick of that damn thing blinding me every time I have to dig him out of that dumpster.”

“You’ve only had to do it one other time Frank,” Matt’s quiet voice says from the bed. Claire almost sighs in relief at the steady quality of his voice.

The jerk doesn’t _sound_ like he’s in pain.

“Claire’s had to pull me out a few more times than that,” he continues.

And she rolls her eyes.  

“Just shut up Matt,” she says, dumping her bag beside him.  “So what was it this time? Drugs? Sex trafficking? Someone stole Karen’s ‘I heart Daredevil’ button?”

Matt’s smile turns sheepish and he shifts in the bed, avoiding her question.

Castle just reaches for his undershirt and slices it open.  “It was a girl,” he growls, shifting the prone Daredevil despite the man’s feeble protests.  “Actually it was an _ex._ ”

Claire’s eyebrows shoot up her brow and she chokes.  “Wh-what?!   _Who?!”_

Matt just sighs.  “Her name is Elektra. We knew each other in college.”

“Did she give you these?” she asks, poking gently at one of the GSW’s in his shoulder, relishing his gasp and twitch when she pulls her gloved finger back.  “Man, you must have really dumped her, huh?”

She tries not to be irritated at the thought of Matt dating.  It’s ridiculous, that twinge of jealousy she feels.  

At the thought of sharing the Daredevil.

Castle just huffs out a breath and takes a swig of vodka before handing her her forceps.  

 _Speaking of jealousy,_ she thinks as she catches the spark of irritation in his blue eyes. His knuckles are white as he clutches the bottle and she eyes it warily before turning to her most troublesome patient, gritting her teeth as she takes in the battered quality of his body.

“I didn’t _dump_ her,” Matt mutters, chin stubbornly set as she begins the long process of stitching him back together.

“We weren’t even really _dating._ ”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Claire mutters to herself, nose wrinkling as she removes a bullet from his right shoulder.  His breath hisses between his teeth but she ignores it. “Usually from some asshole who’s been smacked over the head with a frying pan.”

“I think I’d take the frying pan at this point,” Matt sighs, eyes closing and teeth clenching as she swabs the entry wound clean and begins stitching it closed.  

“So what’s this Elektra’s deal?” she asks, trying to keep him distracted. Castle sits beside her in sullen silence, watching them both with that dangerous over-protectiveness she’s grown so used to.

It’s the one defining feature of the Punisher she can appreciate.

Over-protective and stubborn with it.

It’s kept them all alive this long…

Matt is quiet for a moment, eyes still closed and brow wrinkled as he thinks and she moves onto the next gunshot entry wound, thanking god that whoever shot him used small caliber bullets and not the usual assault long-bullets.  

“I wasn’t expecting her to be fighting this war,” he whispers and both she and Castle hear the agony in his voice.

The pain.

But not from what his body is obviously feeling.

This is betrayal.

And he’s hurting with it.

“She was trying to kill Foggy, I think,” he continues a moment later and Claire hesitates, halfway through the process of another round of stitches.

“Foggy?!”

Both men are quiet, Castle taking another sip of vodka as Matt’s jaw clenches and she sits back on her heels.  

“Matt, why is someone trying to kill Foggy?” she asks, tapping him on the arm when he refuses to answer her. “What has Foggy done?”

“Ben Urich,” Castle growls. “Before he died, he passed information on about Fisk to Nelson.  Someone must have found out about it and sent the woman.”

“‘Sent’ her?” Claire asks, eyes narrowing as she watches Matt’s jaw bunch and Castle’s fingers tighten around the bottle.  “What do you mean?”

“She’s working for Fisk,” Matt says. “She helped him escape and now she’s hunting down all of the loose ends.”

_Loose ends._

Castle’s eyes lock on her and she shivers.

“You didn’t bring me here just to patch Matt up, did you Castle?” she whispers and her hands are shaking. Her entire body is shaking.

And all she hears is the rushing of blood in her ears.

“Fisk might think it’s time to get rid of the Night Nurse once and for all,” Castle growls and she understands now.

The dark billboard.

Matt’s apartment.

The assault rifle strapped to Castle’s back.

Matt’s obvious worry.

“Elektra might be coming for me next?”

**

“Are you okay Castle?”

As a nurse she is supposed to know her patients and their needs by wrote.  It’s the difference between a life and a death, really.

A nurse is supposed to know her patients’ bodies by touch.

By the scars marring their skin.  

And the emotion coloring their voices when she asks how they’re feeling.

“I’m fine, Claire. Go back to bed.”

Castle’s voice is dark, tense.  

Worried.

For her?

For Matt, who still hasn’t returned from checking on Foggy and Karen, tucked away in an unknown safe-house somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen.  

He hasn’t told either of them where it is and it frustrates both her and Castle.

Especially since he’s only just been shot and his ex might be dead-set on murdering all of them.

“You need to rest,” she says quietly.  

It’s been a solid day since she’d patched Matt up again.  He’s well on the mend, despite his not resting, and it still kind of weirds her out, watching his wounds heal at astronomical rates that should be inhuman.  But she doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Both men are still certain she’s in danger.

Despite it being more than 24 hours since Elektra and Matt clashed, and still no sign of her.  

Castle’s shoulders hunch at her voice and she sighs, folding her arms across her chest. She’s too tired to pull the tired but righteous trauma nurse persona on the hulking man in front of her but she knows he hasn’t slept.

Or eaten.

And that damn bottle of vodka doesn’t count.  

“Castle-”

“Do you blame me?”

The question stuns her.  He asks it with such finality in his voice. Such resignation.

This is a man who has spent years fighting his demons.

Punishing himself, as much as he punishes those he perceives have done wrong.  

It breaks her.

“Frank,” she says, her hands settling on his arms and she pulls him around to face her.  His eyes are downcast, his jaw tight but she knows him well now.  

Knows the agony that’s lurking just below the surface of his ice-blue gaze.  

“I don’t blame you, for anything that’s happened to this damn city or to me.”

And isn’t that just the damndest thing?

Because when the Russians captured her the last time she blamed the Punisher for every moment her body broke.  For every drop of blood that they spilled.

Every broken bone.

Every nightmare.

She blamed him and she feared him but now she knows better.

She knows both of these men so well now.

And she will never blame them for the hellish path they’ve chosen to walk.

It’s not her job to blame them.

She’s the Night Nurse.

Her only job is to get them back on their feet and into the fray.

Her only job is to keep those stubborn hearts beating.

To keep this stubborn, scarred and emotionally damaged man alive.

By any means necessary.

She kisses him, reaching up on her tiptoes, fingers tangled in the straps of his vest to give her the right amount of leverage, and her lips meet his with determination.  

She will never blame him for the skull on his chest, much like she will never blame Matt Murdock for the devil in his soul.  

“Claire,” he growls, pulling free of her mouth, eyes wide, fingers tight on her hips.  “What-”

She bares her teeth in a snarl she learned from him and moves her fingers to his hair at the back of his skull.

“Just shut the hell up and kiss me Castle,” she growls back, teeth nipping on his bearded jaw and fingers yanking at the hair she holds.

He gazes at her for a moment, warring with himself-god she knows him so well now-but it only lasts a moment.

The Punisher kisses like he fights.

Brutally and with economy.

No move is wasted.

No stroke of his fingers is without purpose.

Her entire body flares to life with a roar of blood in her ears and she gasps into his mouth, giving him the chance for his tongue to stroke and caress hers, much like his fingers stroke her body into life.  

“Claire,” he murmurs, his deep voice rumbling through her, shaking her to her very core and his hair is wild from her fingers, his eyes dazed from the heat passing between them.  “What are you doing?”

She smiles and begins undoing buckles and snaps with far greater skill than she’d had the last time she’d undressed him.

Practice, after all…

The vest falls to their feet with a soft thud and he kicks it out of the way, herding her towards the dining room table which is covered in medical supplies, his weapons and one of Matt’s suits.  

Castle hauls her up into his arms when she stumbles with a muttered “I got ya” and she can’t help but laugh.  

She wraps her legs around his hips, grinding up against his groin and he groans into her mouth.

“Fuck,” they breathe as one and god, she’s wet already and he’s hot against her.  

“Are you sure about this?” he rasps, eyes locked on hers and she’s smiling gently at him, fingers moving to stroke his jaw and neck

She wraps her fingers around his throat, exerting a small amount of pressure against the corded muscles, and something primal flares in his eyes. His muscles tense under her hands, bulging as he struggles to remain upright. To remain sane.

It’s basic, this thing they’re doing.

Simple.  

Nature.

She craves it as much as she knows he does too.

“Yes,” she whispers, leaning forward for another kiss which he willingly gives her.  “Yes, Frank.”  

The table bumps the back of her legs and he growls, before sweeping a section of it clear.  Weapons, bandages and Matt’s suit go flying and she jumps at the clatter the guns make on the hardwood floor.  

Their mouths never leave the other’s, teeth tugging at lips, tongues stroking the hurts away and it’s good.

It’s so, so good.

“Shirt,” she pants, fingers tangling in the heavy black turtleneck he wears.  

“Let me,” he growls when she whimpers at the pressure of his thigh appearing between hers.  “Hold on Claire, hold on.”

He steps back a moment, friction and pressure gone and she’s never felt this empty.

This lost.

She feels crazed with the heat washing over her body and he’s shirtless now, the black shirt joining the rest of his gear on the floor behind him.

She swallows at the sight of that broad chest bared for her, at the terrifying maze of scars criss-crossing his body.  His chest hair is speckled with grey, much like his beard and the hair on his head and her mouth goes dry at the sight of tattoos blacked out on his biceps and peeking over his shoulders.

“Marines,” he grunts, skin rippling when she touches him, exploring the black ink she’s never had the chance to investigate before.  “Couldn’t have them on my skin anymore.”

“Oh,” she says weakly, tears pricking her eyes.  

She knows why those tattoos got blacked out.  

She’s heard this story before, from Matt and from the man standing half-naked before her.

He’s watching her take him in, a small smile curling his lips and his eyes are almost warm.

Almost...gentle.

“Well?” she says, a smile growing on her own lips.  “What are you waiting for Castle? One of us is mostly naked and it’s not me.”

He stretches a hand out to stroke her hair, toying with one of her curls as he sighs and then his fingers move to the zipper of her hoodie.  

He moves so slow, so cautiously, eyes watching her carefully, checking for uncertainty.

Second guesses.

Fear.

Damn but she’s well past that now.  

His hands are callused, warm, as hard as every inch of his body and she shivers blissfully as he skates his palms lightly over her shoulders and collar bones, barely touching.

The hoodie falls behind her with a soft whisper of cotton and he bites back a groan, rumbling in his chest.

She’s naked, having pulled it on after her shower without bothering to look for a bra or t-shirt. Her bike shorts are hiked up to her hip bones and Christ, there is still too much clothes between the two of them.  

But he doesn’t seem to care; he cups her breasts and oh…

This is a side of the Punisher she’d never thought to see.

Eyes soft as he watches her skin flush with his heat, lips curled in a small smile that doesn’t even resemble a snarl.

He’s gentle, he’s reverent.

“Oh God,” she whispers the moment his lips brush her nipples.  “Oh God.”

His tongue circles the first peak he takes, teeth grazing lightly and she actually groans, head falling back on her shoulders, fingers curling in bliss on the surface of Matt’s dining room table.  

Her thighs clamp his hips and he grunts as she pulls him closer.  Her breasts tingle, each time his mouth sucks at her skin and she tries to find her voice.

“Frank,” she pants, hand rising to settle in his dark curls.  “ _Castle._ ” He stills, eyes glazed as he meets her gaze and she cups his chin.  “If we’re really doing this, there are condoms in my kit.”

She sees it, the shift in his eyes, of reality easing back in and it almost breaks her heart.  

Almost.  

And then he grins, that old Frank Castle grin that still scares the shit out of her.  

“Of course you do,” he growls and she gasps the moment he reaches for her shorts and pulls them off in one smooth movement.  “Hold on, Night Nurse, we haven’t gotten to that point yet,” he says, lips trailing from her breasts to the soft swell of her belly and even lower.

Liquid heat washes over her, gathering at her core and she gasps the moment his teeth nip at the soft skin of her thigh, mouth trailing from thigh to her mons.  She shudders, thighs falling wide for his touch and her vision tunnels when his fingers move from her breasts to join the cruel teasing of his tongue, spreading her labia for better access and she tenses the moment his teeth trail alongside her clit, just once.

A wide palm presses into her belly, keeping her pinned to the table and his eyes meet hers, dark with warning. And that tongue darts from clitoris to center, licking at the moisture gathering there.  

“Castle,” she gasps, back arching despite the hand pinning her to the table, desperate for more friction, for a harsher touch and he complies.

The sound of his slap, light but still shocking, freezes her in place and as stars dance across her vision she leans up on her elbows to see him watching her, hand poised over her crotch. The nerves he just awakened sing and her muscles tighten beneath his hand, tensing for that desperate pitch over the edge.  

“Did-did you just smack me?” she sputters, eyes wide and his teeth flash in a dark grin.  

But he doesn’t say anything, just presses those fingers still poised over her singing clit, to the bundle of nerves so wantonly begging for more.

“Oh Christ,” she moans, head falling back, eyes squeezing closed and fingers scrabbling along the table surface, seeking uselessly for purchase. “Oh sweet Mary Mother of God.”

He laughs at that, at her prayer, his warm breath washing over her flushing skin and damn, this is dirty.

This is

This is

...yeah...

Two fingers take her, curling wickedly upwards as he stretches her carefully and she struggles against the hand still pinning her, neck arching when she bites back a curse. He thrusts those damn fingers into her, palm smacking lightly into her clit each time, rocking her so hard her breasts, heavy and stinging from the beard chafe, bounce and just as she thinks this is it-

That it’s almost time for her to fall over that precipice he stops-

he

stops

“Fuck, _Frank_ ,” she gasps, panting, arms shaking.  Her body trembles, that precipice teasing, the orgasm lurking in the tensed muscles fighting his wide palm still pressed to her stomach and she wonders briefly if she could get away with reaching down and finishing the job.

He pinches her hip, blue eyes sparking when she jumps and opens her eyes to meet his gaze once more.

“Do it and you’ll get worse than a smack, Night Nurse,” he growls, dark threat in his voice and a little bit of reality comes leeching back.  

This is the Punisher she has between her legs.

He’s dangerous.

He’s killed for less than this.

She grins.

“I wasn’t thinking of anything, Castle,” she says and he snorts, leaning over her to reach for her kit, tossed haphazardly across the table.  His broad chest hovers over her, within reach and she runs her hands slowly up his side, fingers bumping over scars and ribs she’s had to set a fair number of times in the past few months; he keeps her pinned, hips leaned against the table, thighs still spread and she shudders when his pants rub across her still sensitive skin.  

The sound of her kit unzipping is loud, its own dose of reality and he flashes another dark grin in her direction before pulling a box of condoms free.  

“So why do you got these?” he asks, brandishing the little purple box and she pauses in the middle of rubbing her fingers through the dark hair on his chest.  His blue eyes are challenging, daring her to tease and she smiles at that.

“Nurse has to be prepared for anything,” she says coyly, rocking her hips up and over his waist; she can feel him, feel his erection pressing against the front of his jeans and she can tell from here he’s big.

Just like the rest of him.

Her eyes close at the thought, even as her tongue darts out to moisten her lips.

He’s still, still leaning over her, pinning her to the table and she can tell he’s struggling for control.

Struggling to remain calm.  

She peeks at him through her eyelashes, takes in his hooded gaze and the nerve jumping in his jaw, just visible through his beard and she runs her hands from his chest, down, down to his waist.  

A soft noise slips from his lips the moment she touches his cock through his jeans, fingers squeezing the solid outline pressing into her palm and she smiles.  

“You like that, do you?” she murmurs, rubbing her thumb along his length and he shudders, table groaning when he presses up into her hand.  “Like it when I touch you? Tease you? Like you teased me?”

“Stop,” he growls, eyes flying wide and he’s shaking, pupils drowning out the ice-blue of his gaze and she does, hands limp at her sides, palm out.  

“Okay,” she whispers, “okay. I’m sorry Frank.  I didn’t-”

He shakes his head, like a horse shaking flies from its eyes, and takes a deep breath.  “It’s fine Claire, it’s fine. I just.”

He clears his throat, leaning forward to press a light kiss to her mouth and before she can ask him what the hell is going on, he says, “I’m clean. I get tested every year for diseases. I have had only a few sexual partners in the past year and each of them have been clean as well. I’ve never had an STI and I don’t have HIV.”

She stares at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, trying to process this slight change in course and he gazes back at her, a little desperate.

It makes him appear younger.

Kinder.

And she realizes why.

He’s telling her this because he cares for her.

She’d set out on this mission- _make Frank Castle a little more human by any means necessary_ -thinking she was the only one who cared and here he was.  Condom in hand, basic sexual history laid bare and he was gazing at her with something a little like caring in his eyes.

“Wow, thank you,” she whispers and she reaches for him, even as his brows begin to lower in his tell-tale glare. “Now come here Frank and help me break Matt’s table.”  

She’s laughing, fingers stumbling on the buttons and zipper of his jeans and he growls at her, leaning in to steal a kiss, teeth nipping at her lips, at her jaw, at her throat.  

His pants fall away-after he pushes her hands away and steps free of her clutching legs for a moment-and she has to bite back another curse when she finally catches sight of him.

“Well,” she says weakly, eyes rising from his cock to his face and then back down; he arches an eyebrow at her, hand gripping his penis so that his thumb rests at the head and she almost groans, a heady heat washing over her thighs at the sight of the pre-cum glistening on his fingers and her head falls back on her shoulders.

“What is it with you Hell’s Kitchen men? Are you touched by the devil, for real, then?” she mutters to the ceiling, peeking back down at him and lips parting at the sight of the condom rolling down his length.  He grins, white teeth flashing in his dark beard and she shudders, legs parting even further for his touch. His palms settle on her thighs, stroking some warmth back into her skin and she reaches out to touch him, small hand curling around his cock; he doesn’t move-doesn’t breathe-just watches her as she studies him and she smiles up at him, twisting her hand just a bit around him.

He groans at that, thrusting lightly into her hand and she nods a little bit.

“Okay,” she whispers, leaning forward to kiss his jaw.  “Okay, Frank.”  

He nods back at her and before she can even second-guess this thing they’ve got going on- _sprawled all over Matt Murdock’s dining room table, legs spread, breasts bared and the Punisher naked and erect standing over me like a god, ohgodohgodohgodplease-_ he grabs her hips, fingers digging into her ass, and pulls her across the table towards him, sliding into her center before she knows what’s happening and she gasps, eyes flying wide.

His cock is hard, filling every inch of her core and she arches upward, mouth open on a silent plea, and he snarls back, eyes blazing when her hips rise to meet his thrusts, pulling him deeper.

His thrusts make the table groan, make her breasts rock, make her vision spin.

He fills her, pushing deeper and deeper and _oh god it’s good it’s good it’s good it’s_

She pants his name, back arching even more and he grins down at her, hand slipping between them so his fingers can stroke her clit and oh

Oh he breaks her

She shudders, that heavy liquid feeling of orgasm beginning to wash over her and reaches up to tangle her fingers in the too-long hair at the back of his skull.  Their eyes meet, his thrusts increasing in pace, his fingers hard on her clit and oh god

He smiles at her, eyes crinkling at the corner and he lowers his head to take her lips; the brink comes, that precipice calling for her and his hand moves from her clit. She groans into his mouth, his tongue stroking hers, but he ignores her wordless plea.

His hand moves over her thigh, pushing her leg wider absently and she shudders when his cock pushes deeper as a result, hitting another bundle of nerves not yet awakened. He grips her ass now, pulling her closer, and his belly brushes her clit, replacing his fingers, making her whimper in response.  He smiles into her jaw, murmuring her name and god she’s close.

She’s close.

 

“ _Frank_ ,” she grits out, teeth clenching and hands tightening in his hair, pulling him closer.  His thrusts grow shorter, sharper, hitting her g-spot time-and-again and he reaches between them once more to pinch her clit between thumb and forefinger.

She lurches up into his arms, with a cry, and every muscle in her body burns with the force of her orgasm.  

He leans over her, shuddering, thrusting hard as she rides him out on her climax, one hand pressed tight to her back and his other hand gripping the table for any amount of leverage he can get.

“Christ, Claire,” he grunts, over-and-over, breath hot in her ear and she pants into his chest, muscles still spasming around his cock.  He pants, sweat-laden hair falling into his eyes and she gazes at him, fingers shaking as they press into his jaw.  

“So close,” he pants and she smiles a little dazedly at him before reaching up to press a kiss into his throat.  

He groans at the hot heat of her mouth but she doesn’t give him a chance to return it.

Doesn’t-

Her teeth replace her lips, nipping him sharply over his jugular and he jumps, hips slamming up into her and he shouts her name, coming forcefully as her tongue strokes some of the stinging from her kiss.  

“We didn’t break Matt’s table,” she says quietly, after a long moment has passed; their bodies are pressed together, sweat cooling between them and her fingers are gentle on the back of his head.

He smiles, beard tickling her breast but doesn’t get a chance to respond.

“Not for lack of trying, it seems,” a dry voice from the balcony doorway says, instead, snapping them back to reality quicker than anything else ever could.  

Matt Murdock’s dark glasses glint in the half-light of the apartment and his lips curl as he takes in the sound of two hearts, beating lazily a moment before with post-climax, now beginning to race.   

“Getting along a little better you two?” he asks, pushing off from the doorframe and heading towards his bedroom.  

Castle and Claire just stare after him, flushes that have nothing to do with sex warming their skin.  

The bedroom door clicks closed and she sighs.

“My clean clothes are in there,” she whispers, loud enough for Matt to hear and she smiles at Castle when they catch the faint sound of him snorting.

**

The night Matt Murdock and Frank Castle finally get rid of Elektra, Claire’s at a bar, enjoying a few drinks with some of Hell’s Kitchen’s more colorful personalities and she’s in a dress.

A really fucking nice dress.

That she’d had in her closet for like, a year.  

Dammit.

That alone should be her first sign that shit’s about to go down.

“So you and Matt, huh?”

Luke Cage glances at her over the whiskey he’s pouring for Jessica and she sighs.

“How do you know about that?” she asks, sipping her beer and trying to avoid his gaze; instead she meets Jessica’s gaze and well.

Maybe she _does_ know where Luke gets his intel after all.

“I thought you were in with the Punisher,” Jessica says, smirking as Luke slides her tumbler across the bar towards her.  “Or is it Daredevil or is it _bo_ -”

Luke silences her with a warning glare and leans against the bar towards Claire. “You gotta be careful Night Nurse. You’re playing in shark infested waters with those two. And Frank Castle is not a good guy, you’ve gotta know that,” he says, his deep voice washing over her despite the loud 80s music streaming from the battered jukebox in the corner. Trish Walker is leaning against it, talking animatedly to the Asian guy Claire’s seen a few times around the place in the past.

“Yeah. Believe me, I know that,” she sighs, swirling the dregs of her beer as she does. “But I think I’m the only one who can help either of them right now.”

“Help them fulfill any dude’s greatest fantasy, you mean,” Jessica grumbles into her booze, still grinning even when Luke snaps his towel at her and points imperiously towards the corner with Trish and her companion.  “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” she mutters, stalking away with a last wink at Claire.  

She smiles despite the teasing. It’s something she’s gotten used to hearing, from herself mostly.

Sometimes from Matt and Frank themselves.

It’s just…

“I don’t think I can back out now Luke,” she mutters, eyes locked on the bottom of her mug.  “They need as much help as they can get at this point and I’ve seen too much, seen too much of them to stop this. Besides, neither of them can do a suture to save their damn, idiot lives.”

He doesn’t push, for which she’s thankful.

Luke Cage is the very definition of patient.

He’s with Jessica so yeah, it works.

“They still haven’t caught Murdock’s crazy ninja ex then?” he asks, pouring more beer in her mug before greeting Trish and her friend when they return to the bar, empty glasses in hand. “If he needs any help with that, tell him to hit us up. We know a thing or two about crazy exes around here.”

She just smiles, waves at Trish who tells her her friend’s name; Danny grins and offers his help in taking out Elektra as well and Claire finds herself relaxing in his presence.

“Thanks,” she murmurs to them all, “but I think Matt and Frank have it figured out.”

_Please God let them have this figured out. Let tonight…_

_Let tonight be the end of this nightmare._

She moves away from the bar then, Luke caught up in Trish and Danny and his other patrons, Jessica intent on beating a drunk at a poorly thought out bout of arm wrestling. On the drunk’s part at least.  

Jessica grins and barely flexes before the table is groaning and the drunk is howling curse words at her as she scrapes crumpled bills into her coat pockets; the drunks surrounding them cheer or groan in turn and she’s laughing, something Claire hasn’t seen very often in the few months she’s known this particular group..

She sighs, shaking her head in resignation and heads for the empty corner by the jukebox. Pat Benatar is playing now, guitar chords ripping through the dive bar and God but she’s tired.

It’s barely ten and she’s already ready to call it a night and head home to bed.  Her own bed. That smells like her shampoo and not Matt’s. That she can stretch out in without worrying about kicking Frank or Matt in the shins.

A pang of sadness washes over her at that.

Loneliness.

She's had them wrapped around her for weeks now.

Locked away in Matt’s apartment as the two of them try to neutralize their latest threat, wherever she happens to turn up.

She’s had Frank at her back for days, keeping an eye on things while she’s at work, grocery shopping and whatever.  

Matt rubbing her feet after a long shift, asking her about her day, his voice quiet, attentive to her words and the soft groans she’d let out when he got her arches just right.

She’s been surrounded by the Daredevil and Punisher for two weeks, their hands on her skin and their bodies warm beside hers in Matt’s bed.

It’s been good.

But now…

Now, she’s going to be in her own bed, her own apartment, her own pajamas and it’s weird.

It’s-

“I’ve always been more of a Stevie Nicks kind of woman too.”

Claire jumps, hand tightening around her mug and she turns to face the woman who’s interrupted her thoughts.

She’s tall, taller than Claire.  

Dressed in black leather pants, black halter top and a red leather jacket, she looks a little out of place in Luke’s bar; she looks like she belongs in a nightclub.

Or maybe one of those stupid kung-fu movies Foggy loves so much.

Her hair is straight, dark, and hangs nearly to her hips.

Her eyes are dark as well, hooded slightly.

Her nose is kind of hooked.  It looks like it’s been broken a few times.

Claire’s eyes narrow at that, her brain already analyzing.

“Yeah,” she smiles, finally inserting her quarter and selecting the album she’d been staring at absently while thinking about her current status with two of New York’s most wanted.  “Grew up with Fleetwood Mac, y’know. _Edge of Seventeen_ was my theme song in high school.”

_God I’m trashed…_

The dark haired woman smiles and shifts in her black heeled boots, not saying anything but easing closer into Claire’s personal space. Her dark eyes flick around the bar, studying the drunks and Luke’s gang of misfits, even as she leans casually against the juke and stirs her drink with the olive topped toothpick.

Claire is suddenly struck by how familiar this is, this woman watching everyone with bland disinterest on her face, her undoubtedly powerful body beginning to press into Claire’s. This weird sense of déjà vu rolls over her and her heart starts to race.

This chick reminds her of Matt.

Of Frank.

Of Jessica and Luke and Trish.

Even of that Danny kid Trish is draped around.

This chick is very obviously dangerous- _oh shit._

_Vigilante._

_Ninja-ex._

_Elektra._

Before she has a chance to run-to reach for her phone in her purse with its small collection of numbers the NYPD would sell their souls to get their hands on-the woman ( _Elektra, Elektra is here, goddammit Claire_ ) is closing the little distance between them, arm wrapping tight around Claire’s waist and she’s pulling her close.

“Do not scream Night Nurse,” she hisses, teeth bared in a snarl and Claire’s heart is practically galloping now. “If you scream I kill all of your friends, yes, even the strong man and his girlfriend.  I have ways of taking care of them. Now, come with me.” Her arm tightens around Claire’s waist and she’s being pulled from the juke to the dark hallway leading to the restrooms at the back of the bar.

And the back door which leads to the alley.

_Shit._

_Shit shit shit._

“What do you want Elektra?” she asks, her voice calm despite her terror.  Despite the itching worry of _How am I going to get out of this one?_

Elektra hesitates, eyelids flickering and Claire’s lips twitch in an involuntary grin.

_Two can play this game, bitch._

“You and I need to have words, Night Nurse, away from prying eyes,” Elektra says and god she’s _strong._ “Do not make this any harder for yourself.”

Claire snorts at that, the heavy door leading from the bar to the alley thudding closed with finality behind them and her nose wrinkles when it’s assaulted by the stench of the garbage and piss stained alley Elektra pulls her through.

“You obviously don’t know anything about me,” she mutters under her breath, her skin bumping when the cool winter air washes over her bare arms and legs. “My life has been nothing but hard this past year.”

Elektra doesn’t respond, simply hauls her a few feet more before stopping in front of a black sedan, its windows tinted so Claire can’t see who might be lurking within.

The assassin hesitates before turning towards her and Claire swallows, eyes darting around them, hoping desperately for a rescue.

For an escape.

For a white skull looming out of the shadows.

For red eyes glinting in the street lights.

For…

_You’re on your own Claire._

_Take care of this._

“Do what you have to, Elektra,” she sighs, arms wrapping tight around her chest as she shivers. “We both know I can’t fight you on this.”

Admitting defeat tastes like ash in her mouth but this is her problem now.

Her battle.

She’ll end this. One way or another.

_I’m tired of being a pawn._

_I’m tired of being the weakest link._

Elektra’s eyes narrow but then she’s reaching for Claire again and as her fingers settle on the pulse point between Claire’s skull and neck, everything goes dark.

“Goodnight Night Nurse…”

**

There’s a day, a few days after she and Frank nearly break Matt’s table, that she wakes up to Matt’s fingers stroking her bare shoulder while he and Frank talk quietly over her.

They’re gathered in Matt’s bed, her sandwiched between the two of them and this has become her new normal.

Frank’s bare chest her pillow.

Matt’s arm draped over her waist, forehead pressed between her shoulders.

This is her new safety.

“There’s a way, you know, that we can stop Elektra,” Matt is saying, his voice soft, those damn fingers of his warm on her bare skin.

She concentrates on keeping her heart rate steady and her breaths even.

She tries to ignore the rasp of Matt’s fingers on her skin and the way it feels to have her leg draped over Frank’s waist.

“I know what you’re thinking Murdock,” Frank growls, his deep voice vibrating through her and her body shudders involuntarily at the sensations he awakens now every time he talks. “And I don’t like it.”

Matt sighs, fingers trailing from her arm, down her side, to brush the soft swell of her breast.

It’s one of her favorite things, this strange domestic life they’ve had for the past few days.

Matt reading her body.

Frank anchoring her as her skin flares to life beneath their fingers.

She sighs softly and shifts, pulling herself tighter to Frank’s side, turning a bit into Matt’s hand and both men fall silent for a moment, listening for signs of her waking.

But she’s good at this game now.

She knows how to keep her body quiet.

Matt starts stroking once more and Frank’s heart beats steadily beneath her ear.

“If we use her as bait she’ll kill us. You do realize that right?” Frank growls and she can feel Matt nod, those damn fingers skating over the hardening peak of her nipple once more, pinching gently, the pebbling skin flaring to life beneath his callused touch. “And I’m sorry Matt,” Frank continues, that dangerous snarl deep in his voice now. “I think I’d rather take my chances with Elektra at this point, than Claire.”

Matt just chuckles and his fingers are drifting lower now, from breast to hip.

From hip to the warm skin pressed against Frank’s stomach.

“What do you think Claire?” he whispers in her ear and she can feel him smiling, damn him, can feel the rasp of his scruffy morning stubble on her skin and she shivers, even as Frank’s arms tighten around her and pulls her tight against him.

“Feel like helping us with this problem we’re having, Night Nurse?”

She smirks, opening her eyes as she turns to look at Matt over her shoulder and her hands slide over his, pressing it tighter to her skin.

“And which one is that?” she asks, voice rough with sleep and arousal. “Because right now, I can only think of one problem the three of us are having.”

Frank’s laugh washes over her, making her smile deepen and Matt’s lips twitch in a grin as well.

Matt’s fingers skate over her clit and her hips twitch, grinding his finger into Frank’s side and she bites back a groan. But they hear her.

They know her.

Frank pulls her into his arms, flipping her easily so her back is pressed to his chest and his hands are tight on her breasts, cradling them in his wide, scarred palms and _God._

This.

This is something she’d kill for.

Matt’s head between her legs, pulled wide by her position sprawled across Frank.

Frank’s hands kneading her body to wakefulness.

The two of them working in tandem to bring her to the brink and drop her over.

Matt’s tongue laps at her greedily, fingers easing past her entrance and spreading her gently with each thrust and she can’t help but arch into his touch.

Into Frank’s hands.

“What are you two scheming?” she pants, head falling back against Frank’s chest, hips pressing into Matt’s face.  “What do you need me to do?”

They’re quiet, Frank growling under his breath when she presses a kiss to his jaw, Matt focused on his own personal task but she can wait.

She can

_Wait._

“Ahh,” she sighs when Matt’s fingers curl up and his thumb presses down.  “Matt, if you’re planning something stupid, I need to know. Just so-so I can restock.”

Frank chuckles and leans her head up so he can kiss her.  “You’re not making this any easier for yourself Night Nurse.”

She just smiles and reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair.

“I gave up on easy a long time ago,” she says, words ending with a truly wanton moan that makes both men stiffen against her.

Matt presses a kiss to her thigh, pulling his fingers free and she whimpers, hips writhing at the sudden lack of friction; both men smile down at her, Frank taking his cue from Matt and reaching for the box of condoms left on the nightstand from the night before.

Matt strokes his fingers, soaked with her arousal, over her lips and she sucks at them greedily for a moment, eyes fluttering closed when Frank pinches her nipples into even harder peaks before tossing a foil wrapped condom to Matt, who catches it easily.

He removes his boxers but she pays him no mind; her entire consciousness narrows until all she knows is Frank’s teasing-his rough touch on her sensitized breasts, on those fingers stroking down her sides to cup her crotch, the heady heat of his body washing over her, readying her for Matt.

This partnership they have…

It works.

Like nothing else she’s ever witnessed.

Frank’s erection presses into her ass but she knows he can wait.

She knows that for him, all he cares about is Matt and her, their arousal and satisfaction.

“Claire.”

Matt’s voice is gentle, but she doesn’t miss the order hidden there.

Her eyes flutter open and she sees him kneeling between her legs, hand idly stroking his erection and she can’t help biting her lip on the tiny groan that slips free.

“Well, Mr. Murdock?” she asks, “Do you have something to present to the court?”

It’s cheesy, she knows it. But it makes him smile and it makes Frank laugh.

So it works.

“The defense brings before the jury,” he begins but he doesn’t get much further. She leans forward with a snort and tugs him in for a kiss. Frank’s hands settle on her hips, leaving her breasts bare but she doesn’t care.

Matt kisses with a skill she’s never felt before. He’s gentle, but firm, testing her and teasing until she is leaning into him, desperately seeking more.

Frank’s hold on her hips is the only thing keeping her in place though and Matt is laughing against her lips, cheeks flushed, hands on her cheeks, pushing her gently back against Frank’s chest.

“Easy, Claire,” he says, slightly breathless and damn, it feels good to wring him out.

She smiles, reaching up to press a kiss to the shelf of Frank’s jaw, body flushing as Matt begins trailing kisses over her breasts and down to her belly.

Frank’s hands settle on her breasts once more and she moans softly when he rolls them expertly in his palms, rough fingers back to teasing her nipples.

Matt presses his erection to her entrance and she arches slightly into Frank’s hands when Matt’s fingers press into her clit. Before she can do or say anything, he slides into place, filling her and God.

It’s bliss.

He thrusts gently at first, letting her adjust and he’s so much the opposite of Frank Castle.

Matt is gentle, so aware, his entire focus her-her heartbeat, the soft noises she makes when his skin slaps hers, the way her body rises against Frank’s hands to meet him.

He drives her crazy.

Frank’s hands work her breasts, pitching her closer as Matt’s thrusts pick up pace, but he only toys with her for a moment as their rhythm is found. She barely notices his hands sliding down her torso.

He pinches her clit and she gasps, eyes flying wide and back arching, her hands tangling in the sheets beside them.

“Castle!” she groans, and he’s smiling at her, ice-blue eyes knowing and daring her to scold him again.

Matt and Frank work her, pushing her closer and closer to orgasm and she forgets what she woke up to.

Forgets their scheming.

Forgets Elektra.

Forgets Hell’s Kitchen and its continuing bullshit.

Forgets…

Matt doesn’t shout her name when he comes; he’s too Catholic for that. Instead he buries his face in her shoulder, his breath washing over her overly sensitive nipples and Frank steadies them. Claire’s breaths are ragged, each hard thrust rocking her back into Frank’s chest and she’s so close.

So...close.

Frank rubs her clit roughly, spreading her arousal over the nub and she groans, every muscle tensing; Matt rides her out, still hard and he whispers her name as she comes, lips pressing kisses to her jaw and the jumping pulse in her throat.

When she comes, she takes them by storm, every nerve singing at the treatment she’s received from them and it’s beautiful.

That’s what Frank tells her, every time.

It’s beautiful.

Matt moans when her muscles work his half-hard cock and Frank’s erection jumps beneath her ass when she reaches for him, tangling her fingers between his.

The three of them fall quiet, Matt’s and Claire’s bodies moving in tandem towards rest and she sighs, carding the fingers of her free hand through Matt’s hair.

“Okay,” she breathes, “that was nice.”

Both men chuckle and she smiles. “How you doing Castle?” she asks, glancing up at him through her eyelashes.

To his credit, Frank just smiles and folds his arms behind his head. “I’m just enjoying the view right now, Nurse Temple,” he says, eyes skating over her still flushed body and Matt, who might have fallen asleep.

She laughs at that, especially when he raises their tangled fingers to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. “But I won’t be content for long, Night Nurse,” he growls and his eyes flash.

She shudders at the warning in his words, in his eyes. “Yeah, well,” she says, in her no-nonsense “I’m in charge and I know what’s best for you” nurse’s voice. “You two have a plan you’re cooking up and I want to know what it is. And I’m going to find out. One way or another.”

Matt is smiling when Frank growls and flips her beneath him, hips pressing into her, hands gathering her wrists in his to hold above her head and she stares up at him, eyes wide and heart hammering.

“Castle,” she says, slowly, warningly but he just bares his teeth at her and reaches for the box of condoms again.

“You’re going to find out what we’re scheming, huh?” he growls and if she didn’t know him as well as she does now, she’d miss the humor in his voice. In the way the corner of his lips kept twitching up into a smile. “One way or another?”

She snorts, glances at Matt, who’s sprawled beside them, fingers idly toying with her hair. He’s grinning as well, lips slightly swollen from kissing her and she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, well, I figured it was worth a shot, trying to get it out of you two while I had you both post-coital.”

“Ah.” Frank glances at her, before rolling a condom down his erection and she strains lightly against his hold on her. Which just makes him snort and tap Matt’s hand; Matt cocks an eyebrow but takes her wrists, holding her tightly in place and she sighs.

“Assholes,” she mutters under her breath. “So what’s the plan, you two? How are you going to get rid of Elektra?”

Frank barks out a laugh and presses his erection to her entrance, waiting until her attention is on him and she bites her lip, waiting.

Waiting.

Damn him.

Matt is always so gentle with her, listening for her body’s response to his.

Frank?

Frank is hard.

Efficient.

Brutal.

And both of them work her so well, it’s ridiculous.

“Matt wants to use you as bait,” Frank growls when the three of them are tangled in the bed together, sweaty bodies cooling slowly and hearts beginning to beat in tandem. “He wants to use you to lure Elektra out into the open, onto our own turf.”

She pauses in the process of stroking her fingers along a ragged scar bisecting Matt’s chest and she glances up at them both.

“Okay,” she says slowly, fingers spreading over Matt’s chest, counting his heartbeats absently in the back of her skull. “When do you want to do it?”

“Claire,” they sigh as one, Matt’s eyes squeezing closed and a pulse begins to tick in the muscle of Frank’s jaw.

“No,” she says, pushing off of both of them to sit upright. “No, don’t you fucking dare ‘Claire’ me,” she snaps, facing them so she can poke them both in their chests. “This is as much as my war as it is yours. I’m tired of hiding. Tired of being afraid every time I go to work that this might be the day I face that bitch. I’m _tired_ you two.”

They’re quiet, Frank’s gaze hard as he searches her face for lies.

Matt just grabs her hand and toys with her fingers, tracing the lines in her palm.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” he says and she can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, well,” she says, snatching her hand free of his and shoving off of Frank to scramble off the bed. “You’re a year too late, Matt.”

The sound of the bathroom slamming closed behind her serves as her final warning.

This is it.

This is her final warning.

 _I’ll end this,_ she thinks as she turns on the shower and grabs a towel from the rack. _I’m tired of playing this stupid fucking game._

But as she steps into the shower she’s not quite sure what game she means.

Elektra’s game?

Or the game she’s been playing with the Punisher and the Daredevil?

_Fuck this._

**

Claire hears the slap that wakes her more than she feels it.

“Mmph!” she shouts, eyes snapping wide, ears ringing with the force of the slap and she struggles for a moment, trying to figure out where she is.

What’s going on.

“Mmhm?”

Duct tape.

Mouth.

_Lovely._

“If you promise not to scream, Night Nurse, I will remove your gag,” a voice murmurs from the shadows and Claire jumps against the chains holding her, eyes searching the pressing darkness for who might be lurking, watching her.

“Mmm!” she says, eyes narrowing when a light snaps on and her captor eases into sight.

Elektra watches her carefully, fingers toying idly with the strange triple bladed knives she has strapped to her hips and Claire swallows nervously when the light catches them. “Mmhammkah!”

Elektra hesitates, pressing one of the knives to Claire’s throat. “Scream and I’ll leave your corpse for Matt to find, understood Night Nurse?”

Claire nods, carefully, eyes welling with tears.

Elektra tucks her knife away and in one smooth movement, yanks the duct tape covering Claire’s lips free.

“Fuck!” Claire groans, arms tensing against the chains holding her suspended from the ceiling.

“Apologies,” Elektra says, tossing the now wadded piece of tape away and taking a seat in the metal chair Claire hadn’t noticed until now. “So, Night Nurse, tell me how you slipped your guards tonight,” she says, folding her arms over her chest and crossing her long, leather clad legs. “I’ve been in this garbage dump of a city for weeks, waiting for Matt Murdock and his partner to slip up in protecting you but they’ve been so careful up until now.”

“So watchful.”

Elektra’s voice is thoughtful, dark eyes taking Claire in and if she wasn’t hanging chained in what appears to be an empty warehouse, she’d find it funny.

Getting grilled by Matt Murdock’s crazy ex.

_This is a new level of fucked up Claire._

“I just wanted to go out and have drinks with friends,” she says, shrugging as best she can despite the chains. “They were too busy hunting you to notice I was gone.”

Her heart races but she doesn’t care.

_The plan. Just stick to the plan Claire._

“They probably thought you’d be too scared to try anything, anyway,” she continues, swollen lips curling at the slight goad.

Elektra’s eyes narrow and her foot twitches at that but she doesn’t say anything.

“Why do they care for you so much?” she muses and that’s the question of the century isn’t it?

Why do the Punisher and the Daredevil, Hell’s Kitchen’s most dangerous vigilantes, care so much about her?

“Because I see them as the men they actually are,” she murmurs, eyes rising to the shadows behind Elektra and lips curling in a smile. “I see them for who they are beneath the mask and the skull. Good men. Flawed, but good.”

A boot scuffs in the darkness, the sound of a pistol hammer cocking echoes through the cavernous space and leather creaks.

But Elektra doesn’t have a chance to react.

Doesn’t have a chance to defend herself.

A white skull looms out of the shadow, red lenses glinting at its side and Claire smirks.

“Sorry Elektra,” she says when the other woman curses them in a language Claire doesn’t understand. “But I figured you’d be able to smell a trap better than this.”

Matt’s fist cracks into Elektra’s ribs and Claire winces at the telltale sound of ribs snapping.

“Get me out of here,” she whispers, eyes squeezing closed as the sound of fighting begins to echo in the warehouse. “Get me out.”

“Easy Claire. I’ve got you,” Frank murmurs and God…

Her entire body sags into his in relief when he breaks the chains holding her. “Thank you Frank,” she whispers as he scoops her up and carries her from the warehouse. She glances over his shoulder in time to see Matt slam Elektra bodily into the floor and she winces when the woman’s skull strikes the crumbling cement before falling limp.

“Good job, Night Nurse,” Frank growls in her ear, hands rubbing soothing circles over her back as he carries her towards the car Elektra had thrown her in. “You caught Elektra.”

She laughs a little shakily and shakes her head.  “I just kept my phone on so you could track me,” she murmurs. “I didn’t have much to do with it.”

Frank just shrugs and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah, well, you still didn’t have to offer yourself up as sacrifice, so whatever. Stop being so noble Night Nurse.”

They fall silent, watching Matt as he carries a bound and gagged Elektra through the door and heads for the car they rest beside. Claire winces when he tosses her into the trunk and slams the lid closed but she keeps her thoughts to herself, huddling deeper into Frank’s arms as Matt stalks closer.

“Claire,” he says, hands rising to cradle her face between his palms. “Did she hurt you?”

She shakes her head and presses shaking fingers to his bleeding lips. “No, but she got you good.”

He shrugs and sighs, pressing his forehead to hers. “God, you scared me to death Night Nurse,” he whispers and she can’t help but shiver.

This…

This could have gone so badly…

So…

“I’m fine Matt. You got her, that’s all that matters,” she says, fingers stroking his cheek beneath the edge of his mask.

Frank sets her down, hands tight on her hips, turning her so he can look down at her and God, this is worse than going to confession.

“That is _not_ all that matters Claire,” he growls and his hands are warm. Matt is warm.

“That is not all that matters,” Matt sighs and he’s kissing her bare shoulders, even as Frank cradles her face in his hands and kisses her swollen lips.

“You are all that matters, right now,” Matt murmurs. “You and that dress.”

She snorts and eases free of them, patting the trunk as she heads for the passenger seat. “Well I can think of _one_ thing that might matter a little bit more than me and this dress. Come on boys. Let's drop this package off at the precinct. Like you two promised you’d do, when you caught her.”

Her pointed words silence them both and Frank sighs before easing into the driver’s seat. “You know,” he growls, catching the keys Matt tosses him. “There are days I regret having you two as partners. Far too noble. It’s going to get you both fucking killed.”

Matt’s soft laugh washes over them both and Claire just smiles, wrapping the jacket Frank hands her a little tighter around herself.

She knows he’s joking.

And God, isn’t that the most ridiculous thing?

She knows the Punisher well enough now, to hear the humor buried behind his rough voice and hard words.

“You two,” she sighs, eyes drifting closed now that the car’s heater is really kicking in and Frank’s jacket is covering every inch of her. “Goin’ to be the death of me, I swear.”

She thinks Matt says something but she’s too warm, too tired, too _relieved_ to have them with her, safe and Elektra neutralized to care.

It’s just...one of those things, every nurse knows and understands.

You take the victories when you can.

You take them and you fucking _run_ with them.

**

_Months Later_

“So, how’s that thing you and the Punisher got going on working out for you two?” Jessica Jones asks one night when they’re all gathered at Luke’s bar, Pat Benatar ripping through the shitty sound system overhead.

Her eyes are sparkling with that sideways humor she has but Claire just smiles and sips her whiskey sour.

“Who ever said the _Punisher_ and I even have something going on?” she shoots back, leaning forward in her chair to reach for some bar nuts Luke has set out. “He’s a criminal and one of New York’s most wanted. As a public servant I’d be duty bound to report his criminal activities to the police.”

Jessica smirks and shrugs. “Eh,” she says, waving a seemingly delicate hand in the air. “Criminal, shmiminal. It’s all a matter of fucking perspective. But judging by what _I’d_ seen of you two-”

“Making blind jokes already Jessica? We only just got here!”

Both women snort and roll their eyes the moment Foggy Nelson collapses in the chair beside them and Jessica punches him lightly in the shoulder, grinning when he winces.

“I wasn’t making any fucking blind jokes Nelson,” she says, dragging a table and some more chairs over so Karen and Matt can join them. “Hey Karen. Hey Murdock, fancy seeing you here.”

Matt smiles slightly at the jab and leans down to kiss Claire.

“Hey,” he says when she tangles her fingers between his. “Everything okay?”

“Mmhmm,” she says, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Long day.  You?”

He shrugs and waits until Jessica and Trish have distracted Foggy and Karen. “Same. Frank’s coming. We had a mess to clean up but he didn’t want you to get worried.”

She frowns and tightens her hold on his jaw, turning his head slightly before reaching out to press lightly at his ribs.

“How bad?” she sighs when he winces.

He doesn’t get a chance to respond; instead a hand settles at the nape of her neck and a voice growls as her head is pulled back for a kiss.

“Bad enough that we’re both going to need a nurse, I think.”

Their little corner of the bar falls silent, too many eyes turned towards the three of them but Claire doesn’t care, she just rolls her eyes and kisses Frank and then Matt.

“Yeah?” she says, grinning as she takes in Jessica’s triumphant grin and Foggy’s and Karen’s shocked faces. “Luckily for you idiots, you know a Night Nurse.”

  



End file.
